


Someday You'll Laugh Again

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, eddie grows a beard, eddie recovering, paul bunyan content warning, post fix it fic, richie's terrible stand up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21572560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Eddie, recovering from their escape from Neibolt House, starts to grow a beard and Richie loves it. Except for the tiny fact that it makes him look like a little Paul Bunyan mascot.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 142





	Someday You'll Laugh Again

Eddie pressed the blade of the razor up against his cheek and stopped, resting it there without trimming a single bristle. Water dripped from hands, off the bottom of the palms and into the sink with a little _plink_ that echoed too loudly, dropping lower and lower through the earth. It could go so far. It could get so dark.

There was a moment to get a lost in, and Eddie pulled himself away from the drain instead. His wide, sunken eyes tripped across the reflection of his knuckles until they caught the pale scar on his cheek. He found it instinctively. Why not, it had been there for several months now. Ugly thing. Ugly, awful….a poor reflection, that’s all. If he dragged the razor down, he could see it even better.

Usually it was much brighter, moonlit white against his skin, but he’d been stuck in bed with a chest cold that threatened to break him open— _again—_ and he hadn’t shaved long enough that his beard was starting to cover it. Eddie smoothed his thumb down the bristles, the black hair just starting to curl down around his chin and lip. A little while longer and it’d be filled in. No more scar on his cheek. Not one he could see, anyways. He wished he could grow a beard on his chest, too, but the thought of having _Austin Powers_ body carpeting only surprised him with a sudden nose-snorting laugh.

He set the razor down on the sink and chuckled into his palm. Too hard and it would start to hurt, but it hurt to trap laughter in his mouth, too. Someday, he’d just let out a huge, unfettered guffaw and it wouldn’t hurt a damn bit. He’d have tears down his eyes and they’d be the good kind, too. The soul-cleansing euphoric kind. It’d probably be at one of Richie’s shows. He hoped it would be. He hoped it would be soon as he squeezed his eyes tight instead of looking down the long dark drain into the pipes, into what he knew were just regular, unhaunted, perfectly normal sewers and let the laughter die naturally, muffled and small and caught in his hand.

There was a muted thud outside. One, then two. For a moment, Eddie worried it was coming below his feet. He shuffled back, catching a hand on the towel-rack set in the wall, the other reaching for the shower curtain to tug into place and hide himself. His chest ached down the scar across his sternum. It was only tempered when Richie’s voice wormed in through the closed door.

“Eds? You almost done in there?”

It was too easy to fling himself at the door and open it so he could crash into Richie and cry so hard into his shirt, his eyes would probably burst a blood vessel and he’d detach a cornea and tear the lens, which would require surgery and recovery time, which was really only adding to the general panic as the gentle _plip, plip_ - _plip_ , _plink_ from the faucet was replaced with the heartrate monitor he could still sometimes hear in his sleep.

Eddie didn’t move away from the wall. He didn’t let go of the shower curtain.

“I really gotta take a leak here. You want me to use the kitchen sink?” Richie paused a moment to let the horror of urinating in their kitchen sink settle into Eddie’s brain. “Yeah, I’m gonna go shower those dishes. Alright. Be right back!”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Eddie shouted and yanked the door open to see Richie lounging lazily in the doorway, clearly going nowhere. He smiled an easy, care-free sorta smile, his eyes half-closed like some sunbathing cat before they popped open and he stretched his neck to be closer to him.

“Gross, right?” he asked, imbued with that impish delight. “Ah, waste of effort anyways. My dick would go right down the disposal and I’d get an impromptu, mid-life bris. I’ll pass.”

“You’d put your dick down the…?” Eddie was usually faster than this, but he was still half-a-step into panic and it was hard for him to catch up.

“No. Cause it’s so huge. Step aside, Grizzly Adams. I was serious about needing the john.”

Richie carefully waltzed Eddie aside and only nudged the door so it didn’t shut all the way. He never shut it all the way. It didn’t matter what he was doing, it was some perpetual habit he had formed that the door was never closed when Richie was in the bathroom. It didn’t seem half-crazy, considering what they had seen. But manners. And hygiene! Eddie huffed and half-stumbled towards the kitchen as he heard Richie start to urinate.

The blinds were drawn shut still. It wasn’t _that_ early, but it wasn’t _that_ late either. They should be open. Eddie went over, resting his hands on the wall like he needed to catch his breath. Half-true, but mostly he was contemplating whether he wanted to look outside. Whether it was worth it. It was. It was always worth it. The sun stretching out, all crisp and warm in the last dregs of summer that greeted them all when they escaped the actively collapsing ruins of Neibolt House. He hadn’t been awake to witness it, but he had made some sound as Bill and Mike helped haul him up that made Richie crumple. Some sign that made Richie break open, too, like he had also taken a fucking claw through the chest. Mike had said he thought Richie had had a stroke or something, maybe a seizure, his mind shorting out from the relief that Eddie was still with them. And the sun had been so bright. Too damn bright. Even when he was stuck inside his own mind, that weird dark place where he was just resting, he promised, he was just resting is all, Eddie felt that sunlight.

So. Should be easy to open the blinds. Not a problem. Morning routine, in fact. And Eddie stared at his hand still, but he just didn’t pull the blinds open. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“Hey, hot stuff.” Richie was dragging his hands down the front of his dark jeans, a second attempt to dry them after the terrycloth in the bathroom. It probably had dirt smudges on it now. Richie hadn’t been anywhere near dirt and Eddie still imagined how unclean that cloth was. He judged unfairly, but Richie was still that snot-nosed bastard kid with big glasses and graphic tees and converse sneakers with dirty laces. Just bigger. More handsome. More of an asshole. “Sorry. Let me get that for you.”

“I can get it,” Eddie said, even as Richie touched Eddie’s side and stretched around him to flip the blinds up. He winced against the sunlight, until it dulled to the muted gray outside. It looked like it wanted to rain, but now knowing LA, the clouds would clear by noon and they’d want to be out of their coats to get away from the sudden creeping heat. “Jesus.”

“Lord, let it shine.”

“It’s ‘let there be light.’”

Richie just shrugged and kissed Eddie’s temple, rubbing his side. It was a little too irritating against his skin, like short hairs being plucked from the root by the slowest waxer in the world. Eddie caught Richie’s hand to still him. He didn’t mean to hate it. Just too much too early. Instead, he held Richie’s wrist and leaned against him, caught up in a wool sweater and thick white socks and gym shorts that sagged down to his kneecaps.

“Either way. What sounds good for breakfast? You hungry?”

The automatic answer was _uhh, no,_ but he’d used up that gamut too much the past week and a proper breakfast helped with metabolism and would probably balance out his cultures, plus prevent an ulcer when he took some of his medications. The ones he could get to, anyways. Richie had been weening him off some of the less-than-necessary handfuls Eddie had been pummeling down since he was a tween, because Mommy Knows Best.

“Waffles or pancakes?”

“Huh?” Eddie blinked and pulled himself back up to look at Richie. To be present with him. He smiled ruefully, a little tickle of a laugh scratching his chest. “No. I don’t wanna…I don’t want syrup.”

“Uh, yes you do, because you’re a heathen if you don’t have syrup with waffles. Or pancakes?” Richie asked hopefully, waffling his own hand between the options. “Waffles. Pan…cakes. Look, pick one.”

“No! That’s way too much sugar. My blood sugar is gonna spike and I’m going to go into ketoacidosis and—”

“You won’t,” Richie said, interrupting him before he talked himself into a fit. His hands migrated up to Eddie’s shoulders, compressing him enough to be something meaningful and grounding. “You don’t have diabetes. You’re not hypoglycemic.”

“Hyper,” Eddie corrected quietly.

“Sure. And a stack of waffles is not gonna kill you, okay?”

Eddie rolled his eyes dramatically, making his head ache along the ridge of his eyebrows, before he huffed another half-hearted laugh. It came out almost like a cough. Richie followed his face like his eyes were tractor beams, rolling and nodding with him, which made Eddie’s miserable anger taper off.

“Okay, well,” he started, putting on an extra effort to sound annoyed just to be amusing. “You don’t have a waffle maker.”

“Okay, well,” Richie repeated in the same tone, and his words died off when he realized that was true. “Shit. I probably don’t even have, like, Bisquick or anything. I forgot to have Rita get groceries.”

“Yeah, about that. Why do you still have your assistant get groceries for you.”

“Uh, okay, dumbass, I was looking after _you_ ,” Richie shot back and nuzzled against Eddie’s cheek before he wrinkled his nose and pulled back, rubbing the slight red spot on his skin. “Ow.”

“What?” Eddie’s heart spiked again, an unfamiliar symptom punching into his anxiety. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Just a little rug burn,” Richie said and laughed, kissing Eddie’s cheek. Eddie deflated under the affection, almost touching his cheek again like he was offended he was unshaven. He had liked it for a second and forgotten about it, same as he had been allowed to forget about the scar from Bowers stabbing him…in the bathroom, which is why he never locked the door, but he never left it open either. Richie kept it cracked because he needed to be able to see and hear and get out. Eddie kept it closed because he didn’t want to see, didn’t want to hear. He needed shelter and an escape. He needed it unlocked but he needed it barricaded. It was Hell. Their life was Hell. What the fuck. What the entire actual— Richie rubbed his thumb just so across Eddie’s jaw and brought him back again. “It’s alright. You’re just in the itchy phase. Give it a week. Okay?”

Eddie blinked and focused on Richie, his eyes magnified by those huge glasses.

“Yeah…. Yeah. Yes.”

“Yes. To the store!”

“I’m not really up for the store,” Eddie muttered, looking down at his gym shorts.

“To the IHOP!”

“Richie.”

He was already over by the front door, fetching coats out of the closet. There was a time he used to just chuck the same tired leather jacket onto the back of the sofa and flop down onto the cushions after it. Now he had hangars! Truly, Eddie was his savior.

“Richie!”

“IHOP,” Richie answered and held up Eddie’s black wool coat. They might be in California now and winter might as well be a joke, but it was cloudy out and below 60 and Eddie could admit he’d become a bit of a pussy, Richie’s own words. If they were said with anything but love, nobody had to comment on it. “Fiiiine. I’ll let you pick the breakfast spot too. You’re a tyrant.”

“You love it. You have a…tyrant kink.”

“Weak,” Richie crooned.

“Whatever. Still,” Eddie snapped back and earned a quick wink, a finger guns, and his coat.

*

Richie could not convince Eddie to get pancakes, nor waffles, but eggs and bacon made their way to his plate and, truth be told, he did “steal” a bite of waffle _with_ syrup _and_ whipped cream that Richie all but air-plane-noised into his mouth. They sat on the same side of the booth and nobody said shit, which was a rare delight, considering Richie’s notoriety. Possibly because he was dressed like a slob with a slob next to him, with his scruffy beard and his stained shorts. Grease had gotten on the hemline somehow. Richie had to be blamed. He was blamed profusely while they were sitting there. Eddie didn’t even realize the stain was there until they were already at the restaurant and threw a tiny fit, which was diffused same as others by Richie petting his cheek with his thumb and muttering some obscenely gentle reminder to not give so much of a fuck about stains and messes. His kiss tasted like maple syrup and coffee. He smelled like the bacon off Eddie’s plate. And it really was alright, just like Richie promised.

They discussed going to get groceries, compromising on waiting until tomorrow. The sun came out through the city and Richie shed his coat while Eddie stayed in his, holding his hand, pretending everything was alright, even when they crossed near a park and a herd of kids ran past with balloons. They were all different colors. They were so sure it was innocuous, innocent. Nothing. But Eddie didn’t have an inhaler and Richie squeezed his hand and they returned home to huddle on the couch and pretend. It really was alright.

*

“Rita. Baby. Honey apple crisp daffodil pie. Love of m—”

“Neil says you _gotta_ do the Rundown on Saturday night or he’s going to take your teeth.”

“What?” Richie held onto the door jamb as he talked to Rita, slowly bouncing his hip off the door in an agitated dance. “My…teeth?”

“He’s gonna fuck you up, Rich,” she said affectionately, a little shrug like _it’s out of my hands._

“Uh, Neil. Brosman. Five-foot nothing _including_ the haircut with the little Hitler ‘stache.” Richie bumped the door again, his arms hanging off the top of the entryway like he was stretching his shoulders. It was perhaps inappropriate to say, but it made his ass look great. Eddie stayed curled up on the couch holding a hot cup of tea—lemon, honey, dandelion, saffron, a sprinkle of Cayan pepper; it did not taste good and that was not the point—and watched Richie. Or, more accurately, watched his rear. “And he’s gonna take my _teeth_? Weirdo.”

“I think he’s just upset.”

“Now I’m upset.”

“Just show up at—”

“No, I’m, like, really upset.” Richie let one of his arms dangle and brought it up to cover his heart. “I’m distraught. I don’t think I can do a show like this.”

“Richie….”

“I can’t even…my teeth? Rita…my fucking teeth? That’s messed up. Tell him I need a mental health week to recover.”

“You can’t—”

“Love ya, Rita!” He began to close the door as she fought to keep it open. “Say hi to the wife and kids for me! You’re a doll!”

“Richie, you can’t—!”

“Jesus, you’re strong.” He was shouldering the door now as he fought with his assistant, only winning out when she cursed him black and blue and stepped away, letting the door slam hard with Richie collapsing against it. He rubbed a red spot on his forehead, standing back up slowly. He turned and grinned behind his arm, all his teeth on display. “Rita says ‘hi.’”

“No,” Eddie answered slowly, sliding one foot off the couch and then the other. He sipped the tea and did _not_ make a face at the concoction, letting it burn and subsequently smooth his throat. “Why don’t you wanna do the show?”

It was as an innocent a question as those children that had raced by with balloons after breakfast. Richie reacted just the same, too, with a flinch and a deep crease of his mouth that he tried to fold up and hide. He locked the door and shuffled back across the apartment, the hardwood floor softened with paisley red and white and black rugs that reminded them both too much of old hotels on the east coast. Richie was already practicing a laugh, blooming into a forced smile, and held his arms up to take Eddie into a nice, warm embrace.

Of course Eddie saw through it. Of course he still wrapped him up and hugged him, pulling Richie to his chest instead of the other way around and hauled him down to lay on the rest of the couch beside him, forced to lay his head in Eddie’s lap. Neither of them complained.

“I dunno.” Richie closed his eyes and took a deep breath when Eddie rubbed a cold hand across his neck and down his chest. “Like, seriously? What’s the point, right? It’s the Rundown. Neil wants the old Trashmouth routine before they workshop the next special. And, honey? Your hands are fucking freezing.”

“Yeah, you’re warm,” Eddie answered. “Why not just do it? It’ll be easy.”

“I want you to be there,” Richie whined, and then immediately shook his head. “I mean, no. Sorry, I mean, I _want_ you to be there, but I know you’re not ready to go out and, okay, you’re not stuck indoors either I know you can go out if you want to and you can, I’m just saying with recovery and all and I don’t wanna, like, force you to do anything just because—”

“I’ll go.”

Richie slowly opened his eyes and caught Eddie smiling at him, which only made him look soft and surprised and bright-eyed. He caught a hold of Eddie’s elbow like it might not be real, like he might be imagining this, and Eddie almost laughed, but it made him cough into his fist instead. He shook his head and smoothed out his fingers on his chest.

“No, I’m okay. I’m okay. Little tickle is all.”

It was a lie.

Or it wasn’t, and Eddie really was starting to figure out what was a normal cough and what was a disastrous disease only formed in his head. Or maybe he was lying about the strange ache from the scar that made laughing hard and didn’t want to admit it to Richie. Not ever.

“You want your tea?”

“I mean, no, it’s gross.” He reached with Richie still firmly in his lap. “But, yeah. I do.”

“Please don’t spill on me.”

“I would never,” Eddie said, but still dribbled a little on Richie’s shirt.

He yelped, not because it was hot, not because it would stain, but because Eddie had said he wouldn’t and did it anyways and he sat up when it was safe and made a big show of wiping his shirt off and demanded apology kisses until Eddie folded and gave them over, smiling flat against Richie’s lips, spilling tea into his mouth and laughing for a second until he caught himself, until he caught his mug, until he caught his chest and wheezed as Richie went to fetch a towel.

*

Short of physically manifesting in their apartment and kissing him right on his semi-famous and lucrative Trashmouth, Neil was very happy that Richie had decided to do the show. He hung up almost immediately afterwards and returned to the patch of warm skin he’d managed to free from Eddie’s sweater, kissing an uneven pattern down towards his hipbones. He paused when Eddie fisted his hair, getting too ticklish, and continued when Eddie let go or if he shifted his hips on the couch to get a better angle. Their little muted version of red-light-green-light carried them on until dinner time and, by that point, they had relieved themselves of too many clothes to go shopping for groceries or pretend to go out. They ordered pizza, half with pineapple and sausage, the other half with peppers and olives, each of them disparaging their choices and eventually swapping slices while they caught the tail end of _City Slickers_ and made out during commercials.

*

Eddie stood before the mirror again, a week after pancakes and pizza, wetting his face and staring at the razor on the edge of his sink. Behind him, the door was a sliver ajar, as Richie kept running back and forth to ask for opinions about what he should wear, from the underwear to his socks to his wristwatch to a little chorded necklace that he kept putting on and taking off. Eddie didn’t even know if it had a charm on it or anything, he never got a chance to find out. Richie was just a blur coming in and out and Eddie stayed constant in the bathroom.

The beard was all filled in. No little hint of scar, no ugly little patches. He smoothed it down, brushing it with the flat of his hand again and again and again and again, until the skin on his palm was irritated and red. It looked find. He looked fine. He was fine. They were fine. He pulled open the mirror medicine cabinet and stared inside at pill bottles and ointment creams and bandages and oils. He was fine, he was fine when he reached, and he was fine when his hands were shaking over the familiar pill bottles, and he was fine when he skimmed past them, grabbed some oil, and immediately shut the mirror back in his face, jumping when he met his own eyes, his own mouth, his own bathroom reflected back at him.

“Hey, Eds!”

There it was. A calm return as Eddie closed his eyes and rested his hands on the ceramic basin of their sink.

“Eddie, baby! Where’s my one shirt? The one with….”

Eddie put a dollop of oil on his hands and rubbed them together until they were smooth and shiny, then dragged them down his beard again and relaxed under the familiar routine. He only paused long enough to shout, “What shirt are you talking about?”

“….”

“Richie?”

“…I think I found it!” His voice was much closer, supplemented with his heavy footfall. Eddie quickly tossed the razor back into the cup, as though hiding evidence to a crime he hadn’t, nor would ever commit. As a promise to the other Losers. To Stan. To Richie…. “What do you think about the blue…whoa.”

Eddie turned around slowly, folding his arms up across his chest.

“Is that a good ‘whoa’ or are you about to go off about something.”

“No, that’s a good…I dunno.” Richie faltered, letting the blue button-down and green button-down slowly fall in his left and right hand—they were, thankfully, on their hangars. Praise Eddie’s work yet again, Rita. “No, I mean! No, it’s good! You look so good! You look….”

“I mean, I’ll change,” Eddie said quickly, hiking his shoulders up a little.

“No!” The shirts, even on their hangars, had no chance as Richie dropped them to the floor and came in to hug Eddie up near the sink. “Oh my god, no. You look so good.”

“You said,” Eddie answered, trying to reach around him half-heartedly to fetch the shirts off the floor, like he might save them. They should have other options in the closet, but those were Richie’s “good” shirts and he was “nervous” and “looking pretty damn good for a change” was his apparent goal. Eddie’s apparent goal was to be casual yet semi-presentable. In a green and black flannel shirt and a pair of semi-decent dark jeans. They were simple and yet effective and, for a comedy show in a little warehouse in downtown LA? Like hell he was doing anything above this.

Plus. It was warm. And that seemed important.

“You don’t like it, though,” Eddie answered after a bit, trying to pick up Richie’s head after he had barreled into Eddie’s shoulder and stuck himself there. “Or something’s wrong with it. Does it look bad?” Before Richie could interject, Eddie nodded towards the ceiling. “No, it looks ‘so good.’ Right. So…what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Richie finally answered, pulling himself up and cupping Eddie’s cheek like he was holding a very delicate china dish. Not that he was being patronizing of Eddie’s condition, which he sometimes was when he was being a deliberate dick about things, but like Eddie was precious and special and to be pampered and loved and held close. He felt the tenderness and the care and the unbridled love, honestly. It was sometimes too much. It wasn’t too much now.

Eddie blushed, thankful for the beard to hide not only the sins of his scars but the sins of his easily swayed heart, apparently. And, to finalize his answer, Richie kissed him. So that seemed to disperse the strange knot of worry that was tangling up in the already tight stretch of pale pink skin that was poked and warped across Eddie’s chest.

He liked it. And that was important.

*

Of course, they arrived with only twenty minutes to curtain, which seemed the perfect amount of time for Richie not to panic he was going to be too early and psyche himself out of doing the gig and not too late that he might as well not show up at all. He had enough clout to his name to ignore the worry of the people setting up the place, trying to get him into a chair to do some assemblage of makeup and change his wardrobe. That he had _people_ said something. The other comedians were starting out, getting their foot in the door. They had shown up in Ubers and old used Toyota Corollas. They sat together in a carpeted Green Room and had rum and cokes and complained about the construction near Sepulveda.

Richie fought with Neil about having a fucking entourage. And he fought them on keeping his mustard-colored shirt, the one with the pale orange petals swirling around it in nauseating twists and turns. The blue shirt would have looked way better, but, the way he was dressed? He looked like Richie. He looked comfortable and awful and perfect. Eddie wanted another kiss, for Richie to have good luck and for Eddie to feel calm and grounded, but he didn’t want to embarrass Richie in front of the bustling crew that was working back there.

“Guys. Guys! This is not the small comedy gig vibe we got going on,” Richie chirped, holding his arm up while someone checked a mic battery in his back pocket. “Can we chill? Can someone get me a water, actually?”

“Get him a goddamn Old Fashioned!”

“Hey, did I stutter and accidentally say bourbon? Sometimes I do that. I don’t want fucking bourbon, Neil. I just need a goddamn water.”

“A goddamn water. Right. Okay, Rich, listen, you’re gonna do the old stuff, okay, Johnny’s script, but I want you to sprinkle in David’s closer here so we can plug it for—”

Richie laughed and was caught up in the whirlwind that he didn’t see Rita tug Eddie aside or casually brush the edge of his cheek in a familiar and familial pat and guide him out to the seats. He was in the third row, over to the right. A good seat. Maybe not the best. Maybe not front and center, but he would be a distraction and he didn’t want Richie to mess up. He wanted him to enjoy tonight, so he sat amongst strangers, wringing together a paper pamphlet on other people performing at the Rundown over the month. He even got out his phone and took a snapchat of himself, smiling too widely, too sterile but mostly happy, as he showed off the Rundown pamphlet and sent it off to the other Losers just before the lights dimmed and some emcee began to announce them.

The warm-up acts were decent folks, ranging from nice and clean to awkwardly raunchy. It fit the crowd. They laughed, which was the fucking point, and Eddie settled into his seat, smiling when appropriate and rubbing away the little knot that was forming over his sternum. When they announced Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier, the knot spread like warm tingles across his limbs and he felt like _he_ was going to throw up from nerves, only able to dislodge the numb pinpricks that were threatening to devour his nervous system entirely when he clapped. And Richie stepped out on stage.

And he glowed.

He literally glowed, of course, because somebody was doing a decent job of following him with a spotlight and added a little burst of lights around the rim of the stage that brightened in a wave, sweeping over him in little star patterns on the plain brick-painted wall behind him. A prop. A cliché since the 80s and a solid choice.

Richie also glowed metaphorically. He bounced onto stage, walking out with a bright, clear smile. The energy flowed out into the crowd, who stood and cheered, excited for a chance to see him. The man had, like, _specials_ and _deals_ and a writing credit for a few comedies that he had almost no right to be added on, considering he hadn’t written his own material since college when he was just starting out. When he was genuine and real. And when Richie settled again at the center of the stage, grabbing the mic stand after a few waves and smiles, Eddie could feel the uncomfortable bitterness start to blossom in his own chest just for Richie’s sake.

“So, my girlfriend kicked me out the other day,” Richie started, his eyes slowly glazing over as he pulled up the old routine. All around him, Eddie could see the audience ready to eat it up, to follow along and laugh at all the right spots, comfortable in already knowing the punchline. “Probably because she caught me boinking my husband.”

Eddie choked into his hands, flashing his teeth against his skin at the surprising change.

They were _not_ married. Hell, Eddie was barely divorced. God, but it felt great to hear it come out of Richie’s mouth. _Husband_.

There was a moment, a general inhale that sucked up the audience, before people started chuckling here and there, letting the surprise warm over into delighted laughter. Eddie’s chest was tight and hot and he bunched a fist up to the top button of his flannel.

“Do people still say ‘boinking?’” Richie continued, taking the mic off the stand and walking around, whipping the chord with a happy bounce behind him. “I honestly don’t know. I haven’t ‘boinked’ in, like, 20 years.” A few more people joined in, almost like they had tricked themselves into laughing at Richie, maybe even with him. “I’m _serious_. I’ve been waiting for this guy, right? He’s here tonight, too, so. Be nice. But, I’ve just been waiting and waiting and, y’know, we were childhood friends, isn’t that sweet? I know. Classic Americana, marrying your childhood sweetheart. Little skewed, though, I guess. He’s a guy. I’m a guy.” Richie paused and cupped his hands closer, so his voice was deep and echoey through the speakers, his shoulders hunched over as he stood directly under a spotlight. “And we had to kill a serial killer clown in the sewers just to be together.” Another pause before he stood up, popping up on his toes. “ _Classic_.”

It was like a cue and more people around them laughed, spreading out through the audience as they collectively either decided this was seriously some weird fucking joke about to return to normal or maybe Trashmouth Tozier had lost his mind. Or he was being real for a change and it scared them or relieved them or did nothing because he was just a fucking comedian and it didn’t matter. They were in a good spot downtown that the crowd was young and while some of the frat-looking bros looked confused, the rest were comfortably happy.

Richie beamed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Homophobia strikes again.

“Ah, but…boinking. Boinking, right? I’m gonna use it. I’m gonna lean hard into this. Mid-life Queer Guy Crisis. Boinking….” He glanced down at the sea of people he probably couldn’t even see with the stage lights and chuckled to himself, his face so warm and contented. Surely, he was thinking of Neil having a fit somewhere and Richie couldn’t be happier. He bounced the mic chord again and crossed the stage. “Do you think Karamo will let me tag along with them?” He looked down and pulled at his shirt, the mustard yellow highlighted in pinks and blues from the stage lights. “I mean Tan France would set me on fire, I think. I think he has to. I don’t blame him. Twenty bucks says my husband begs him to.”

Eddie buckled in his seat, his face split open, and laughing with everyone else. It hurt how good it felt, how free and easy it was, and he wiped at the corner of his eyes as Richie glanced his way, either sensing him or simply guessing where he could be. Or none of those and it was happenstance and it still felt wonderful.

“Nah, I love him. I mean, he’s a total bastard, which. That’s fine. He’ll fuck you up, too, so, don’t give him any shit when you see him later.” Richie blew a kiss into the crowd and winked down the center of the crowd where three people actively dodged it, but a few people hooted and whistled for him, which was apparently bad form. Richie ate it up before he returned to the mic stand, holding onto it for support. “He’s growing this beard out, right? He looks…fucking dashing. I’m ruined, guys.” Richie’s shoulders popcorned up with laughter that he had to keep biting back, sighing up towards the rafters above them. “What’s messed up…. What’s messed up…okay. History lesson. Little Trashmouth Trivia for you guys. Look, Paul Bunyan? Yeah?” He stared up like he was giving a sermon. “Fuck that guy!” And his face cracked again into a toothy smile. “I’m serious! I was…okay. I grew up in this little town. Let’s forget about it, because _I did_ ,” he added in a sing-song voice. “Well, tried to. Doesn’t matter. Anyways, they had this big Paul Bunyan statue, which, why? It wasn’t fucking _Michigan_ or whatever _._ By the way? Look it up. Right now, fuck it, get out your phones and Google it, what do I care. Everyone bootlegging this, switch over to Google for, like, a hot second, I promise not to do anything funny. The first stories come out of Dakota and Michigan and, like, fucking Duluth, right? The first _statue_? Bemidji, Minnesota. Same place they filmed Fargo. I’m getting away from myself. That Bemidji statue is terrifying. I’m telling you, I looked this shit up because Paul Bunyan is _terrifying_.” Richie wiped his hands several times in front of himself and laughed, crossing the stage again. “No, I will _not_ be taking criticism. Listen to me. Like you have a fucking choice, I have a mic. Wrong move, assholes, because now, apparently, _like I said_ , you’re getting a history lesson on Paul Bunyan. You’re welcome.

“Anyways….We had one too. This Paul Bunyan statue. And, uh, it tried to kill me? Which is fun.” Richie spoke matter-of-factly, which made the crowd chuckle at the absurdity of the idea. “It did. Came to life, chased me around the park, the whole shebang. Taunted me the last time I saw it too. And do you know the _worst_ part of this? Right? Besides a crippling phobia of the Midwest and their giant blue ox fetish? Right?” He waited, leaning over so he had to hold his knees, or he’d spill over the stage and into the crowd below. “The _worst_ thing is that _my husband_ , whom I _love_ , is doing a goddamn Paul Bunyan cosplay today and he looks fucking _hot_.”

Richie covered his eyes, his throat shaking, his teeth pressed into his bottom lip as he bit back his laughter.

“He is! He’s hot as hell! I’m telling you, that fucking Paul Bunyan motherfucker is haunting me and I would love to kiss him, like, right now.”

Eddie worried the light was going to go on him and point him out, but it stuck on Richie’s face, highlighting how he was blushing, how he was shaking both from the nerves of coming out in this shitty little comedy club, about how he gave a metaphorical middle finger to his manager. It didn’t matter. Richie put his hands up to his eyes and started scanning the crowd and Eddie felt himself go hot from head to foot before he cupped his hands and shouted, “After the show, asshole!”

Richie perked up, pointing towards Eddie’s vicinity. A few of the people around Eddie clapped, others grumbled, and their sounds were almost dangerously uncomfortable, but Eddie had the scars of a man who did not give a goddamn fuck what people were going to throw at him anymore. He just smiled up at Richie and gave him an thumbs up, then a middle finger, right when the lights flashed on him, blinding him.

“Alright, alright. Back here,” Richie said, waving his hands. “You don’t need to highlight him. He’s hot and, ladies and gents, let me remind you, he’s definitely taken.”

There was a giddy energy vibrating through both of them. Eddie had to wonder, sinking into his seat, if the rest of the Losers felt it, if he should text them, if he should steal a video, if he should slip out of his chair and head towards the backstage, and that last feeling won out in the end so that he was apologizing to giggling strangers and running for the exit. It was never good for someone to be booking it away from a comedian, but he figured Richie would understand.

*

“Okay, asshole.”

Richie struggled to turn away from Neil shouting at him and some tall guy with a shiny head and sunglasses indoors who was trying to wrangle up everyone and keep them away from the back-exit door.

“There he is,” Richie answered, pushing away with the help of Rita worming her way in to act as a second barrier between Richie and his “people.” He would kiss her on both cheeks _and_ the mouth. Later. Eddie would do the same, honestly, but he just stood apart from the little crowd with his arms raised.

“Why the fuck didn’t you just tell me it was because of Paul fucking Bunyan?”

“Because you look hot!” Richie shot back, sounding agitated even if he looked exactly the opposite of such. “I’m not letting you take that off until I can take it off. With my teeth!” He pointed back at Neil, who was now as close to seething as humanely possible, a toad of a man going bright red. But Richie just crossed the rest of the uneven floor until he scooped up Eddie, clapping into a hug that knocked the wind clean out of him. He could complain, the way it punched through his ribs, but he just smiled hard into Richie’s chest.

“Ah, fuck.” Richie nuzzled in tightly, shaking as he held onto him. “Rugburn,” he muttered and kissed up Eddie’s cheek, his temple, pushing him back just a little to get to his mouth.

“Okay, you have to marry me now, though,” Eddie muttered against his mouth.

“Is that a proposal?”

“No,” Eddie answered and made himself serious as he fixed Richie’s collar. “You did that on the fucking stage.”

“That doesn’t count,” Richie said, stretching his neck up so Eddie could fix his collar faster, even smoothing his hands down the front of his shirt, covering his chest. “I mean, cart before the horse, _maybe_ , but you liked it. I can tell. I saw you. I…hold on a second.” He was busy himself, reaching into his pocket to unclip the microphone battery pack, twisting about to dig into the opposite pocket, then looked back. “Wait, shit. I left it in my jacket.”

“Left what?” That weird little hot pinprick feeling went through him again and Eddie realized this was just a new level of anxiety, something sweeter but no less obnoxious and horrible to live through. He thought he liked it _and_ hated it and wanted to strangle the source of it, which was just one Richie Tozier. “Richie. I’m serious. Left what?” he demanded as Richie held up a hand and started to half-skip back towards the group at the door.

“The ring, you moron,” Richie shouted.

Eddie thought he was going to puke. He looked at the ground and tried to find the nerve to empty out onto the pavement and then, miraculously, the nervous disaster that was his stomach offered up easy laughter instead. It was a much better trade, that laughter. He would chase after it forever, his feet doing the same and went to track down Richie and show him how easy and perfect he made him laugh and how he hoped Eddie shared that same joy in Richie’s life.

Richie got halfway down the hall before he stopped and came back to Eddie, walking quickly.

“Never mind, Neil’s on the warpath,” he muttered, hooking Eddie’s arm and smiling with him as they made their escape.

“But—”

“I’m kidding, Ed,” Richie said, which made Eddie’s stomach flop in the worst way this time and he staggered a little. Richie figured he had just tripped and caught him, hugging him up while they walked. “I wouldn’t bring it here and forget it in the back. It’s at home.”

“What?”

“Yeah. In my sock drawer and everything. Thank god you don’t have a stocking fetish, man.”

“ _What_?”

Richie laughed, the sound vibrating through Eddie, disappearing outside, on the sidewalk, and into the dense nightlife crowds. Richie’s hand migrated down to Eddie’s lacing their fingers, his thumb dragging over the empty spot on Eddie’s finger that would have a silver band later that night. For now, they walked together, Richie fluctuating between yelling and whispering his fears and delights of the show, re-running it over and over and how he would have changed his breaks, how he would have worded something different, how he didn’t care, how he did care. He paused outside closed Starbucks and closed clothing boutiques and closed ostentatious antique furniture stores and kissed him like he was afraid he forgot how, each time rubbing Eddie’s beard and glancing down at his flannel, and chuckling to himself.

“Paul. Fucking. Bunyan. Mother _fucker_.”

Eddie laughed too, each time, the sound pulled out of him in the sweetest way.


End file.
